


Said the snake to the human

by ThatDesiGirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (not explicitly stated but you may assume that every Harry I write is Indian Harry), Alive Severus Snape, Angst, Crack Treated Seriously, Drama, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Humor, Indian Harry Potter, M/M, Minor Violence, Mystery, Parselmouth Harry Potter, Parseltongue, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-05-25 00:46:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14965448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatDesiGirl/pseuds/ThatDesiGirl
Summary: After the war, Harry Potter comes back to Hogwarts along with his friends for his eighth year of schooling. With the Dark Lord dead, it looks like Harry will finally have a year free of drama and mystery. However, he faces more and more impromptu trips to the infirmary, run-ins with Malfoy, and conversations with serpents. When a new threat arises from the ashes of the war, a threat that reeks of dark magic, Harry is thrown back into being the Wizarding World’s saviour once more.And what is it with Slytherins and their bloody snakes?!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this started because of my love for Parselmouth!Harry and I just honestly wanted to see him talk to snakes bc comedic reasons, but then it turned into more lol 
> 
> Enjoy this delve into Harry's dysfunctional life as an eighth year snake-whisperer lmfAO

Coming into his eighth year at Hogwarts after a bloody war, Harry Potter knew three things to be true:

1\. He was bent as hell, and proud of it (er, now just to find a graceful way to leap out of the closet) 

2\. Hermione is probably going to take over the world some day, it was just a matter of _when_

3\. The new trend amongst Slytherins was slowly going to ruin what was left of Harry’s sanity

...

The first was taken care of quickly, although Harry hadn’t quite gracefully leapt out of the closet. Rather, he had haphazardly stumbled out of it like a drunken man reaching for a support to lean on. 

On his first day of classes, he had managed to literally bumble into one Blaise Zabini in the Great Hall, as he and Ron were making to grab breakfast. He and Ron had been filing into the hall, their sleep-addled selves bickering half-heartedly about the merits of being a professional chess-player versus being a professional quidditch player. Unfortunately, the enthralling conclusion had been interrupted by a rather solid wall of muscle.

 _Toned_ muscle. 

As it had turned out, Harry had face-first walked into Blaise, his nose acquainting itself with tight, soft sweater of his rather built back. Harry would deny ever being enraptured by the allegedly honey-dew drop cologne, but at the moment, when Blaise had turned around, it was all he could think about. 

Centimeters away from Zabini’s lips (and from having a big gay crisis), Harry suddenly lost all previous vestiges of drowsiness in lieu of encoding the image before him in his mind. The bright, hazel eyes, the smooth velvet dark skin, and the devilish smirk— was it just him, or was it getting a little too _sweltering_ in here? 

Of course, rationally, Harry knew that nothing truly had changed about him. Blaise was still Blaise— a Slytherin, one of Malfoy’s best chums, and overall, a notorious playboy. However, Harry hadn’t accounted for how he _himself_ had changed, how his traitorous mind would suddenly latch on to how tragically beautiful the boy in front of him was, and goddamn, it was too bloody early for this— 

“Potter, are you alright?” 

A much too casual, unaffected voice asked. Harry blinked once, twice, before responding with the words that probably sealed his fate. 

“Call me Harry,” he blurted out, before clamping his jaw shut, mortified. 

By the surprised upturn of an eyebrow on Blaise’s visage combined with the utterly gobsmacked expression on Ron’s face, Harry knew there was no turning back. Although in hindsight, he could have chalked this incident up to merely being blindsided in the morning at his most vulnerable sleep-addled state, Harry instead continue to look anywhere but at Blaise, wondering if he could get the world to open up its giant maw and swallow him whole. The most powerful wizard to have lived could do that, right? 

But then, the most peculiar thing happened. 

A thumb and a forefinger rested on Harry’s chin, smoothly directing his gaze upwards into those hazel depths. The taller boy smirked, before leaning in, the tip of his nose just barely brushing Harry’s. Meanwhile, the Gryffindor was transfixed, green eyes wide and breakfast completely forgotten in lieu of this very impromptu sexual awakening. 

“Alright, _Harry_ , how about you call me Blaise?” 

Of course, as all magical moments in Harry’s life seemed to turn rightside up, so did this one. 

Ron had decided it was high time to start acting the part of the-boy-who-lived’s best mate, and so naturally, he simply could not allow this Slytherin ruffian molest Harry right in front of him. What was meant to be a threatening step forward into wedging himself in between the two with a bellowing, “now just you bloody look here _Blaise_ ,” turned into a rather uncoordinated stumble forward right into the-boy-who-lived’s back. 

Which in turn caused Harry to lean forward just the perfect amount, as Blaise steadied his body with strong arms clasped around his biceps. Harry’s unwitting lips crushed into Blaise’s, and the taller boy’s eyes widened imperceptibly, before he took the entire ordeal in stride, sliding one arm down Harry’s until it was firmly planted on the small of Harry’s back. 

The world blurred as a burst of flavor and saliva mingled on his taste buds, before he slowly closed his eyes, feeling hypersensitive to the firm grasp on him, to the tongue expertly exploring his cavern, and to the hysterical gasps from his fellow students around him. It was a little harder trying to ignore how Ron’s face turned a brilliant shade of plum as he tried valiantly to “save” Harry from the heinous grip of Blaise. 

Needless to say, it had been a rather eventful first day back at Hogwarts. 

Blaise had later unlatched himself from Harry, slapping the younger boy’s shoulder in thanks for a jolly old good time, and winking rakishly before inviting him to come over any time he so desired. And with that, the dark-skinned Slytherin had absolutely puffed out his chest and stalked away, leaving a dazed Harry in his wake. 

As any good friend would do, Ron grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him a brisk shake, before whisking him away to a table for breakfast. 

“Harry? Harry, blimey, he really got all up in there, didn’t he, mate? Merlin, why is Malfoy staring at you now? Don’t tell me that git wants to snog you too…” 

… 

“Hey, mate, by the way, are you bent?” 

… 

Harry had soon become sure of the second fact when meeting with Hermione not even a full day after the, er, _incident_. 

Although he hadn’t felt ashamed of his sexuality, he still rather cared about the opinions of his friends. He knew that Hermione wouldn’t see him as any lesser for it, not with all the hell that they had seen and fought through together. Their bonds ran stronger than the most tempered of iron, deeper than the crimson blood binding family. 

Even so, he couldn’t help the twinge of nerves when he recounted the story to Hermione. 

As Harry finished his story, fidgeting in his chair minutely before reprimanding himself for it, he dreaded the silence that ensued. However, it wasn’t a silence borne of malice. Hermione had that thoughtful look about her, as if she were pondering in a matter of milliseconds every which reaction she could have, and how each outcome would affect Harry. 

In the end, she simply smiled. 

“Did you like it, Harry?” 

Harry blinked owlishly, before blushing. 

“Er, yeah. Yes, I did.” 

“Good.” 

And with that, Hermione opened her book again, as if everything were settled. 

Harry got up to leave and find Ron, who was still undoubtedly in a mental state of shock from the events prior. However, before he left, he gave Hermione a fleeting look. 

“Er, ‘Mione?” 

“Yes, Harry?” 

“You knew already, yeah?” 

Hermione simply grinned knowingly into her book, not bothering to look up. 

As Harry wondered how Hermione knew more about himself than he did, he knew that one day Hermione would probably just take over the entire world. 

… 

That leads to the third thing Harry knew to be true: the new trend amongst Slytherins was slowly going to turn Harry absolutely _mental_. 

Back in the day when a young Harry Potter had just been acquainted himself with the ins and outs of the castle, he had quickly learned that a lot of the students had affinities for keeping magical creatures with them. Whereas muggles would probably have a pet cat or dog, the burgeoning witches and wizards here would keep anything ranging from toads to owls to even rats. 

However, now latest craze that the incoming and returning Slytherins were enthralled with was keeping pet _snakes_. This wouldn’t normally be a problem for Harry— he wasn’t particularly scared of the animal, no, the only animal he would prefer to be kept away from was the acromantula. In fact, Harry oftentimes recalled upon his conversation with the Brazilian boa constrictor back when he was living with the Dursley’s with a sense of vague pride. 

There was, of course the misconception that after Voldemort was killed, Harry had lost the ability to talk to snakes. With the arrival of the abundance of pet snakes to Hogwarts, that theory was soon quashed. In fact, Harry could understand very well what all the snakes were chattering and hissing on about, and it drove Harry absolutely _mad_. 

A first-year Slytherin named Martin Maroney once had the lack of good sense to bring his corn snake to the Great Hall (where all tragedies in Harry’s life seemed to be happening as of late), and the snake had been in a rather pissy mood. It made a great deal out of scaring the other students, hissing and spitting at anyone who dared come near it. 

_“Sssss…. Slop! S…top feeding me slop, meat…”_

The petulant voice rang in perfectly understandable _Parseltongue_ in Harry’s ears. 

In the midst of all the chaos, Harry had simply crouched in front of the snake and looked it straight in the eyes. 

_“You’re hungry?”_

The snake’s head twitched in a show of surprise, before a forked tongue flickered out for a moment. Then the snake bobbed its head in assent. Harry would have laughed at the human-like nature of the response if it weren’t for the fact that Padma Patil’s high-pitched scream was probably now permanently echoing in his head. Lovely. 

The Gryffindor got to his feet, before resting a hand on Maroney’s shoulder, who had been staring jaw-dropped at Harry as if he were the Christ incarnate himself. 

_More like the incarnate of Salazar Slytherin,_ Harry mused sardonically. 

“Right, well, I think the problem here is that your snake here is rather peckish right now. Also, he seems to be a vegetarian. Er, do something about that.” Harry finished lamely, wondering briefly how he managed to be a paragon of leadership just months ago. 

“I… oh. Thank you, Mr. Potter, man— _sir_.” 

It seemed, as Maroney’s face lit up a wonderful shade of rose, that he was not a paragon of anything that involved basic human communication either. Harry simply nodded and walked away, not liking how the snake seemed to be eyeing him almost appreciatively. 

Days later, it became clear that the serpentine creatures rather appreciated being understood. Maroney’s snake in particular must have spread the word that Harry was Hogwarts’ residential snake-whisperer, because an eclectic set of colored serpents periodically made their way to the boy-who-lived to lament their various problems to him. Or simply to have a chat with a wizard who actually knew what they were hissing about. 

Although Hermione thought it adorable, and Ron refused to get near any of the creatures, Harry was of a different mindset. He didn’t despise them, but rather, was completely and utterly _exasperated_ by them. Clearly, the Care of Magical Creatures course had not prepared him for how rather petty and insipid some of the snakes could be. 

For one, they gossiped like old women having a cup of tea with their ladies after a particularly exciting game of croquet. This lead to Harry sitting through rather odd sessions of conversation with the creatures. Apparently, Rhonda was a promiscuous little hatchling who took after her mother’s flamboyant ways, Marquis loved to sneak up on the first-years and scare the souls out of them, Connor (Maroney’s snake) had a hatred for meat due to some top-secret trauma as a hatchling, and Sylvester was a playboy through and through. 

… Harry knew way too much about these serpents. 

For two, every Slytherin who owned a snake now saw it fit to come to Harry with any possible problem they would have with their beloved creature. This lead to more than a few awkward talks about how “Terrence’s stomach is simply upset” to “er, Delilah is about to lay eggs and wants a proper place to do so” to “Marquis loves to frighten everyone and I honestly don’t know what to do about it”. 

It wasn’t as if Harry knew what to do about it either, yet here he was, Hogwarts’ new unofficial snake whisperer. 

(George had howled with laughter when Ron had sent the letter denoting just how much Harry’s skills had been coming into use in their eighth year.) 

… 

Even so, the fact that Harry could still talk to snakes was not an integral part of his life. He still focused on his classes about as much as he did with the circumstances being what they were— no more Voldemort to worry about, except within his abundant, intrusive nightmares. In fact, the first month had gone by so swimmingly that Harry almost felt suspicious at the lack of a threat to his life. 

Ron chalked this up to just how much Voldemort had fucked up Harry’s life (he had received a cuff to the head from Hermione and a cheery “thanks, mate” from Harry), whereas Hermione insisted that Harry try to relax for a moment. Harry thought this rather hypocritical, since Hermione had once again delved herself into the world of textbooks and knowledge, but that was probably just Hermione’s odd way of relaxing into her usual routines. 

Therefore, when Harry woke up one morning feeling a faint headache thrumming behind his forehead, he _knows_ that it’s nothing. 

(Nevermind that it felt so localized to the area around his scar.)

The remaining vestiges of sleep still grasping at the sides of his nightshirt wantonly, he decides it couldn’t hurt to roll over and catch a few more seconds of much-needed slumber. However, he had barely closed his eyes for a second before a hand was on his shoulder, shaking him wildly. Harry got up with a start, ignoring the bit of whiplash that he felt ringing in his ears. 

Ron met his questioning stare with pools of blue, before stating, “you’ve got potions in ten.” 

Groaning, Harry pulled himself out of bed and into a fresh set of robes, as Ron watched on almost plaintively. 

“What’s got you in a twist?” Harry grunted, debating whether to try to flatten down his hair. Some of the 8th year girls insisted that his messy nest was all the rage these days, but from the way his own mirror seemed to be cringing away from him, he had to disagree. Then again, Harry never was the paragon of fashion— not in this lifetime nor the next. 

“Last time I saw Slughorn, he grabbed me right by the shoulder, told me I should make sure you were on time to his class— something about you being a very _special_ student of his. Said it all with a great manic smile too. Bloody wankers, that one is.” Ron shuddered as if reliving a traumatizing memory. 

“Better than potions with Snape,” Harry quipped back, to which he received a hearty “aye”. 

The two made their way down the corridor to the dungeons, the familiar dank feeling of the Slytherin wing causing the hairs on Harry’s arm to stand up. Although he had made his peace with Severus Snape, he couldn’t quite reconcile his new-found feelings of forgiveness towards the professor with his everlasting hatred of the potions dungeons. After all, the only memories cultivated down there were of the bad variety. Even when he had been almost acing his class with the help of the so-called “half-blood prince,” it had been a great point of contention between he and Hermione. 

However, it wasn’t Snape teaching potions anymore; that prestigious position went to one Horace Slughorn, who had a penchant for favoring Harry, much to the dismay of the Slytherins— and to be honest, Harry wasn’t too keen on his admiration either. It made him feel rather like a celebrity, like he was the boy-who-lived again rather than the boy-who-is-simply-trying-to-figure-out-his-life-thank-you-very-much. Harry did admit though that receiving anything more than a failing grade in potions was a wonderful and novel feeling that Slughorn blessedly granted the boy. 

“I heard we’re making something _scrumptious_ today,” Ron said as they walked down the dungeons’ spiraling corridors, earning him a look from Harry. 

“ _Scrumptious?_?” 

“What? Those were Seamus’s _exact_ words— _bollocks_ ,” Ron hissed, flinching away from a flash of movement in the corridor, “what the bloody hell was that?” 

Something white and almost _shiny_ had darted behind the tapestry hanging from the stone wall in the narrow corridor. Harry had just barely seen it, but hadn’t gotten a good enough look to identify just what the creature was. Although, he had a sneaking suspicion of what it might have been… 

“It’s a fucking _snake_ , isn’t it? Oh Merlin, bloody Slytherins and their bloody obsession with serpents—” 

Harry ignored Ron’s moans, instead opting to approach the tapestry and pull it back.

His emerald gaze met a shock of red eyes. The snake flicked out a tiny pink forked tongue, staring back at Harry almost indignantly, as if Harry were a creature beneath the attention of itself. It’s scales were a brilliant white with a faint faded intricate greyish pattern that denoted mystery and class all at once. The creature was about the length of Harry’s forearm, but much thinner and sleek. 

“Oh yes, Harry, why don’t we interact with the snake, instead of making our way to class? Excuse me, but not all of us are _snake-whisperers_!” 

The snake bobbed its head towards Ron, staring accusingly. Harry could almost hear the condescending voice— _“Red hair and hand-me-down clothes? Must be a Weasley_.” 

At some point, Harry must have become acquainted with the very body language of snakes (yes, he’ll freely admit that he might need some therapy but who doesn’t) and he make out the arrogance resident in each and every one of the creature’s pearly scales. It held itself with an aura that made a mockery of normalcy, poise full of a perfect balance between tense and relaxed. No, it was not awkward or out of place at all. Rather, it made _Harry_ feel like he was the one intruding. 

Harry kneeled down in front of the creature, ignoring Ron’s exaggerated whingeing behind him. The snake’s head followed his movement with a calculated alertness that couldn’t help but remind Harry of a wizard’s attention in a duel. 

_“Are you lost?”_

The snake paused in its movement for a moment, its only sign of surprise, before it hissed back. 

_“Not losssst. Neglected…”_

Harry would have felt a pang of sorrow at the words, were it not for the haughty petulance of the snake. As if it were one of those soap opera actresses on the telly, with a metaphorical palm clutching its chest in dramatic agony. 

_“Neglected? By who?”_

The snake seemed to give Harry a once over, which was a rather odd feeling, coming from the serpentine creature. Being the Chosen One, Harry had gotten his fair share of stares and odd looks, but never had he ever been judged by a _snake_. 

(There was, of course, Nagini who had _despised_ him, but Ron agrees that she doesn’t count.) 

“Harry, mate, we have to get to potions. Do try to finish up this lovely conversation within the next millennium or so.” 

Harry wasn’t sure if he imagined how the white serpent perked up at Ron’s words. 

_“Doessssssn’t matter who. You’ll do.”_

“What?” Harry said aloud in regular English. 

Without warning, the snake began to slither up Harry’s arm, which had been propping him up as he squatted on the floor. Ron shrieked rather girlishly as the creature disappeared underneath Harry’s billowing robe sleeve, whereas Harry simply froze in awe of the _warmth_ streaking a path on his skin. He had expected it to be colder, less sentient for some reason. However, he could practically feel the hot throbbing of the animal’s heart pulsing in tandem with its movements. The dry texture rubbed raw against his own forearm, until the snake wrapped itself around his bicep, settling there resolutely. 

“I… alright then.” 

And with that, Harry made his way to potions, leaving a stunned Ron in his wake. 

“ _‘Alright then’_!? Blimey…” 

… 

Potions with Slughorn was a much different affair than Potions with Snape. In fact, there were a lot of changes after the war, as Hogwarts’ 8th year students tried to make the most of the limited space on top of being thrust back into academics after a grueling war. As such, most classes were not simply “8th year only” types of classes, but rather “7th year with a few 8th years smattered within” types. 

Harry had the delight of having yet another mixed Potions class with Gryffindors and Slytherins. This meant that for seven years in a row, he was confined to the same room as one Draco Malfoy for set hours every week. Although after the war, Harry had testified before the Wizengamot to prove how Narcissa had saved the Chosen One’s life and how Lucius had abandoned Voldemort in the final hours, thus pardoning Draco’s mother and father from a life in Azkaban landing Lucius fifteen years of house arrest instead. This had resulted in an almost civil relationship between Draco and Harry. 

Civil meaning that Harry didn’t have the urge to throttle the blonde prat or follow him to foil his next suspicious plot everytime they were in the same vicinity. 

(Although, if Harry were being honest, he still kind of wanted to. Not that he would. He had it on good authority that Dean, Ron, Seamus, and even Ernie Macmillan were making bets on the next time he went on a rant about Draco Malfoy.)

(Ron thought he wouldn’t even last a month. Well, bully for him.)

“I’m not sure I like the way you’re glaring at me right now,” Ron mused from his seat next to Harry, “which is rich coming from you, seeing as you’re the one who made the detour to pick up a bloody snake!” 

Harry was about to splutter out a no-doubt eloquent response, but Slughorn had blessedly walked into the room at that moment. The old man had not been aging gracefully and looked rather worse for wear, but his oddly everlasting outward pleasant demeanor remained.

(Of course, Harry had already seen how the man had crumbled under pressure-filled situations, so there was no point in hiding his cowardice away from Harry.) 

“Alright, students, settle down— I’m sure some of you may have heard already what we are to be working on today.” 

He looked at the unfazed Slytherins and Gryffindors alike with an expectant smile on his face. 

Ron mouthed “ _scrumptious_ ” to Harry, causing the boy to stifle a snicker and elbow his friend in the gut, eliciting a hiss from the snake still wrapped around Harry’s forearm. A few students turned around and looked at the duo questioningly. Harry and Ron stilled, hoping that Slughorn had not been one of those to notice. 

Unfortunately, Harry never really had caught a break in his life before. It seemed that even with the death of Voldemort, that part of Harry’s life continued to remain. 

“Ah, Mr. Potter,” Slughorn beamed with a grin brighter than Buckbeak’s talons after they’d been shined, “Do you have any ideas?” 

“Um… er, is it something edible, sir?” Harry made a wild guess, hoping that Seamus hadn’t been playing Ron the fool. 

Slughorn’s grin widened even further. 

“That would be correct! Ten points to Gryffin—” Slughorn stopped himself, chuckling, “Old habits die hard, don’t they? Even as an 8th year, you continue to exceed expectations, Mr. Potter.” 

As an 8th year, Harry could not win points for his house. This was a rule instated specifically for the 8th years in order to allow them to bond more, as McGonagall had said it sternly at the beginning of the year. Hermione suspected it had a little more something to do with the fact that the number of people returning for an 8th year at Hogwarts was rather disproportionate between the houses, with less people from Slytherin and Gryffindor returning than people from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. It seemed that Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were eager to finish their education whereas Gryffindors were more desperate to leave and find a job. And Slytherins? After it was revealed who had Death Eater ties and who didn’t, the number of Slytherins returning to Hogwarts had dwindled rather pitifully. 

It musn’t have made much of a difference in their career paths. Harry had overheard the Patil twins talking to Hermione about this, and how since most Slytherins were of old pure-blood families, they had heavy inheritances to fall back on and create their own lives. In fact, Harry himself wondered quite often why Draco had returned to Hogwarts, with the tarnish that his name faced with Death Eater ties and also the fact that he had a large inheritance to fall back on. However, Harry had noticed how much the Slytherin had excelled at potions, even without Snape’s subtle favoritism goading him on. He probably wanted to come back solely for the opportunity to work with potions. 

(Not that Harry would care in the slightest.) 

“We are going to be making a modified version of ambrosia! Can anyone tell me what the purpose of this potion is? Yes, Mr. Malfoy?” 

Harry jolted at the name, turning to look discreetly at Malfoy a few rows behind him. The sole heir to the Malfoy family had come a ways from the prat he was in first year. Granted, he was still a prat, but now he was a _fit_ prat. He no longer slicked down his hair to look like a pretentious arse, but rather let it loose in silky blonde locks that reached no further than his shoulder. In fact, it was short, not as short as Harry’s curly mess, but shorter than it had been in previous years. His face was all sharp angles, with a jawline that could cut diamonds. Even the Gryffindor girls were not immune to his charms, Harry having once overheard Lavender Brown moon over his “pouty pink lips” and “those intense grey eyes”. 

“Ambrosia is a harmless, non-toxic potion, although highly addictive if not taken in regulated doses. It tastes like the consumer’s favorite food or beverage, and can be used to temporarily soothe shocked patients, or those who have undergone trauma,” Malfoy drawled eloquently in a bored voice, although Harry didn’t miss the interested glint in his eye. 

“Correct!” Slughorn said again with a flourish, “Ambrosia _is_ non-toxic, as long as it is made with strict adherence to the instructions. That being said, you can find the detailed recipe and instructions in your textbooks on page 479.” 

Ron pulled out the big hunk of a textbook from his bag, nearly slamming it onto his and Harry’s shared desk. 

“Right, so—” Ron began, before Slughorn cut him off. 

“I’ve randomized the groupings for this assignment with the idea of allowing you to complete the task at hand without getting too reliant on your current partner.” 

Ron wore an almost scandalized expression, which grew into a look of sheer horror as Slughorn uttered his next words. 

“Mr. Weasley, you are to work with Miss Bulstrode.” 

From the small whimper Ron let out, Harry knew that he also didn’t forget the strong headlock the rather large Slytherin had once held Hermione in during a practice duel. However, Harry had much bigger things to worry about, as his fate was sealed in the next few seconds. 

“Mr. Potter, you shall work with Mr. Malfoy. Get to it!” 

Harry turned around and met blazing grey eyes and a sneer straight out of his first year memories. 

_Bloody hell_. 

The snake tightened around his arm in what seemed to be agreement. 

… 

“So, er, it says here that we need to cut comfrey leaves into strips and add it to the rest. I can do that— do you mind handing me that knife?”

Wordlessly, Malfoy handed him a small silver blade. It was halfway through the class period, and Malfoy hadn’t tried to start a conversation with Harry, which was just fine with him. In fact, Harry couldn’t help but notice how efficient Malfoy was, plucking out erumpent hairs from the jar with devastatingly dexterous fingers. He had barely looked at the textbook, and Harry wouldn’t have put it past him to have memorized the entire recipe beforehand. Harry himself had always been bollocks at that sort of thing. 

In fact, it was taking most of Harry’s concentration cutting the comfrey leaves into precise thin strips. 

Which is why Harry was very much not prepared when Malfoy casually said, “So, I hear you’re bent now, Potter.” 

Many things happened at once. Immediately, Harry feels the red hot scorch of embarrassment settle underneath his cheeks as his body jerks in reflex to being called out so blatantly by the person he least expected to ask him that question. Unfortunately, his full-body flinch caused the pad of his thumb to slice itself on the knife, causing a small smattering of blood drops to fall on the desk. 

“Fuck,” Harry breathed, overturning his palm to look at the small droplets of blood lethargically flowing down his palm. 

He then felt a weight on his forearm, and turned to see Malfoy with slightly widened eyes (probably wondering how much of a disaster his so-called rival really was, Harry thought past the utter mortification of the situation), and in his other hand, he had been holding out a handkerchief. 

Harry nodded gratefully and took the cloth to wrap around his small wound, too utterly humiliated to acknowledge the irregular occurrence of Malfoy voluntarily _helping_ him. Throughout the whole ordeal, Harry had forgotten that Malfoy was currently putting pressure on his forearm with his own hand. More specifically, his hand was resting on the exact place that a certain white snake had wrapped itself around. 

An annoyed hiss sounded from underneath his robe. 

Malfoy froze. His features slowly turned into an indignant frown. 

“Potter, are you _hissing_ at me?” 

“I—” 

The hiss was louder this time, and Harry could feel movement underneath his sleeve as the snake tried to slither out. 

“Did your _robe_ just hiss at me?” Malfoy raised a single eyebrow. 

“Maybe _your_ robe just hissed at me— oh, sod it all,” Harry groaned as the snake finally poked its white head out of its sleeve and positively glared at Malfoy, pink tongue flickering out almost threateningly. 

To Harry’s surprised, Malfoy let out a small annoyed noise as well. 

“Potter, what are you doing with my snake in your robe? Nadeshiko, _come_.” Malfoy held out his hand to Harry’s (not to hold Harry’s hand, Harry reminded himself) to allow the snake— to allow _Nadeshiko_ to slither on to it. 

“Nade— what?” Harry couldn’t hide his surprise, but in hindsight, he supposed it made sense that a snake as pompous and flashy as this stark white one had to belong to the only Hogwarts student that could match its personality. 

_“No.”_ The snake hissed petulantly, and laid its head flat onto Harry’s still outstretched palm. 

“What did you do to my pet, Potter? And _why_ , pray tell, do you even have her?” Malfoy demanded through gritted teeth. 

Harry couldn’t believe his ears at Malfoy’s almost accusatory tone. Sure, in the past, Harry hadn’t held himself above following the Slytherin around and seeing what nefarious plans he was getting up to (“ _stalking_ , it’s called _stalking_ , Harry,” Hermione had tried to supplement unhelpfully) but Harry had no reason to do so now. Therefore, Malfoy shouldn’t be looking to paint Harry out to be a no-good-dirty-rotten-snake-thief. That’s simply not right. 

And then Harry remember what the snake had told him back in the dungeon hallway. 

“It— er, she said that she was neglected.” 

“Neglected?” Malfoy gasped, before scowling at the creature in Harry’s hand. The intensity of the glare would have burned through Harry’s very flesh had the snake not been acting as a buffer, Harry was sure of it. “Why, you little— I simply left you in my room! I have not once neglected you.” 

The snake sniffed disdainfully. 

_“You leave me alone while you go to class, and I have nothing to do all day. Why didn’t you take me to this class with you?”_

Harry blinked at the clinginess inherent within Nadeshiko’s complaints. 

“Er, she wants you to take her with you to classes,” Harry translated, feeling like the awkward outsider in this argument. 

“Classes? Take her to classes?” Malfoy turned back to grinding Moonseeds with an added vehemence that made Harry wince. “Brilliant idea, Potter. Maybe Granger could bring her cat to lecture, or Weasley bring his stupid rat!”

Harry had half a mind to explain that it wasn’t his idea, and another half to explain the more pressing issue which was that Ron didn’t _have_ a rat anymore for rather obvious reasons, but Harry figured Malfoy wouldn’t have appreciated either response. So instead, he responded to the only one in the conversation with the participant actually interested in what he had to say. 

Angling his head to look at the snake in his palm, he hissed, _“Maybe you could make friends with the other Slytherins’ snakes? It isn’t right to expect him to be with you all day, you know.”_

Malfoy made no reaction at Harry’s use of Parseltongue. If anything, he seemed even more determined to continue on with their potion. 

_“I suppose. But the others are so dull,”_ Nadeshiko whined, and Harry thought that if Malfoy and Nadeshiko could speak to each other, they would get along just fine. 

_“That’s not their fault,”_ Harry leveled, _“Just give them a chance. Draco— er, Malfoy doesn’t mean to neglect you, not really.”_

The snake looked at Harry for a moment, before letting out a serpent’s equivalent of an exasperated sigh. Harry then held out his hand to Malfoy again, whose face was devoid of emotion. 

“She’ll play nice from now on. Needs a lot of attention, that one,” Harry said as Malfoy allowed Nadeshiko to slither onto his hand and disappear underneath his robe. Harry ignored the warmth of Malfoy’s touch as their fingertips connected for a split second (how could he be lost in a split second? Harry must have been going barmy). 

“Thanks, I suppose,” Malfoy muttered, which was more of a thank you than Harry had expected to receive. 

Harry smiled softly to himself, going back to cutting strips of comfrey leaves, not noticing the peculiar look that Malfoy was giving him. 

… 

All in all, Harry and Malfoy had done rather exceptional on the potion. They had finished early (Harry knew it was because of Malfoy’s rather advanced skills, but he liked to pretend that he had played a part in it as well) and no explosions had happened throughout the process which was a win on Harry’s account. The Ambrosia potion had a golden sheen to it, almost like the _Felix Felicis_ potion, except it wasn’t the same brilliant molten golden color. Rather, it was softer, almost more comforting. 

Just as Harry was about to call Slughorn over, a startled choking noise and a subsequent _thump_ from a table behind them caught Harry’s attention. 

A seventh year girl had collapsed like a dropped bag of rocks, crumpling to the ground, much to the shock of those around her. Immediately, Slughorn motioned for students to back away from the area, kneeling down to inspect if the student was still breathing. Her eyes were still open, and Harry almost missed the slight rise and fall of her chest, but he most certainly did not miss the thin trail of liquid gold leaking from the corner of her mouth. 

Slughorn stood up and eyed the girl’s horrified partner, before speaking in a quiet, grave voice.

“What happened here, Mr. Burke?” 

The Slytherin, a nervous slight person, blinked rapidly and stuttered reminiscent of Neville until he finally choked out, “She w-wanted to taste the ambrosia. I-I told her not t-to, but she was really insistent.” 

Slughorn nodded, taking in the meek words as he lifted the girl with a simple _wingardium leviosa_. 

“Let this be a lesson to all of you— you are to not consume any of the potions we create here without explicit permission, _especially_ if I have not checked over it already,” Slughorn said with grim authority. 

“But sir,” Pansy Parkinson piped up from her cauldron, “I thought this potion was non-toxic?” 

“Right you are, however, it is possible that Miss Daniels here had an allergic reaction to one of the many ingredients in this potion— however, that is for Madam Pomfrey to ascertain,” Slughorn said with an air of finality, before making his way out of the dungeons with the unconscious student at his side.

With the rest of the class dismissed, Harry returns to his desk besides Ron to gather the rest of his belongings. Unease was thick in the air, and although it wasn’t unheard of for students to collapse in the middle of classes, Harry couldn’t help but feel _off_. 

In fact, it felt like the beginnings of a headache were dawning upon Harry Potter. 

… 

Harry tried not to think about the incident after that. Rationally, he knew that there was probably a completely logical reason as to why the student collapsed after consuming what was supposed to be a non-toxic potion. 

A _completely_ logical reason had to exist. 

However, he was having a hard time distracting himself— he wasn’t Hermione, who could easily indulge herself in her studies like it was second nature, and he wasn’t Ron, who could be swayed by talking about his favorite Quidditch team or chess strategies.

There also was the pressing issue that Harry had begun to feel that at odd times he would hear hissing noises around him. At first, he thought that some Slytherins’ snakes had taken to following him around again (that had happened towards the beginning of the year, but finally Harry had to sit down and have a very uncomfortable talk with them as to why he didn’t want a horde of serpents on his tail), but he never actually spotted any of them. Perhaps they had gotten better at hiding— a thought that made Harry truly shudder. 

As the weeks passed, more and more students began to mysteriously collapse, falling into a sort of paralyzed trance just as Stephanie Daniels had done in potions awhile ago. It would happen at random times— in the Gryffindor common room as friends sat down for a snack, in the Great Hall, and even in the dorms. 

Some chalked it up to stress (which, frankly, was ridiculous in Harry’s opinion), whereas others feared that a deadly virus was making its way throughout the school (alarmist, and again, ridiculous). The students who were affected by this mysterious malady were either still in the infirmary or transferred to St. Mungo’s— Harry had last heard that some of them woke up dazed, severely magic-drained, and completely confused as to what they had last been doing. Either way, none of the students had been in the least bit helpful in uncovering what had happened to them. 

“Bloody weird, isn’t it?” Ron had muttered as they walked down the corridor, “feels like just yesterday people were being paralyzed by the fucking basilisk. Now this?” 

“Yeah,” Harry said, remembering images of a young paralyzed Hermione Granger. He rubbed at his forehead with the butt of his hand, feeling another headache beginning to build up at a worrying pace. 

Ron eyed the movement warily, clearly not missing the frightening familiarity of it. “You alright, mate?” 

“Yeah. Yes, I’m fine— it doesn’t burn like it did with Voldemort.” 

Harry felt a small spike of pride as he noted the lack of a flinch from his best friend. It had taken a while for him to grow out of visible reactions to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s true name. 

“Right, then, I’m going to head on to Muggle Studies— we’re learning about telly-phones today or something, Dad was ecstatic when I told him. See you,” Ron turned to head up the stairs, but not before adding, “and mate, if you ever want to talk… Hermione’s there for you.” 

He left with a rakish grin, causing Harry to snort and mutter, “wanker.” 

His good mood didn’t last too long. A shift in the atmosphere makes the hairs on Harry’s forearms stand up, a line of prickles trailing down his spine. He shudders softly, before abruptly stopping. There’s hissing again, but it’s louder this time, and he can’t make out a single word. It was as if a crowd of people were trying to talk, trying to say something, trying to _warn_ him of something, but there was too much feedback, too much audio input. 

Spikes of pain throbbed through his head as Harry tried to concentrate on the noise, tried to hear where it was coming from. His feet moved almost on autopilot, bringing him down the ever-changing marble stairs, down a corridor that had been mostly abandoned. He was on the second floor of Hogwarts. Memories flashed through his mind like a tidal wave, flashes of Colin Creevey petrified, Mrs. Norris frozen on Halloween night, and Hermione herself. 

The noise was getting louder sounds, of slithering and hissing and spitting, as Harry approached the second floor girls’ lavatory. Infinite scenarios came to him in bursts, wondering if the Chamber of Secrets was open again, if somehow Salazar Slytherin’s basilisk had reanimated, if… if… 

Harry swung open the wooden door to a truly ungodly sight. 

Water was flowing freely from the sinks with a hearty roar, the dilapidated marble floor covered in a thin layer of the liquid. A horde of snakes slithered on the floor in front of the sinks, curling on top of each other in an unholy tangled rope-like mass which had dread crawling into Harry’s gut. The hissing was loud, agitated— Harry tried to make out some words, _any_ words, but the excess of noises only contributed to his headache and it was a futile effort. They looked like they were writhing in _pain_ almost. 

What shocked Harry the most was one Draco Malfoy, standing in the midst of the chaos with the edges of his robes soaked from the water, staring at Harry with pure, blatant panic. Harry realized why as he caught sight of the mirrors right in front of Malfoy, where crimson red was dripping threateningly from the glass, the viscosity of blood unmistakable even from a distance: 

_THE DARK LORD WILL RISE AGAIN_

A sense of fresh hot dreadful anticipation coursed through his body. 

Harry really couldn’t catch a break.


	2. Chapter 2

“Mr. Potter, are you saying that you feel the Dark Lord’s presence once again?” 

Harry stood side by side with Malfoy in the Headmaster’s office, staring up at one Professor— er, _Headmaster_ Minerva McGonagall. The lack of Dumbledore or even Fawkes within this room still threw Harry for a loop at times; after all, McGonagall hadn’t done much to change it. Harry remembers how even though the ever unpleasant Dolores Umbridge had stayed for less than a full year, she had fashioned her office to fit her style almost _too_ well (Harry still had a now reflexive dislike of the color pink). 

“I— er, no, I don’t,” Harry said definitely, having chalked up his recent headaches to the many snakes that had started to hiss, causing what he deemed to be a sensory overload of sorts rather than deeming his headaches to be the result of sensing the rise of the Dark Lord once more. “I heard… _something_ from the girl’s lavatory, and walked in and found Malfoy there. And, um, the threatening note on the mirror.” 

Harry belatedly realized how this must have seemed to McGonagall; Harry Potter walking in on a former Death Eater’s son who just _happened_ to be in front of a grim bloody message dripping from the mirrors. 

It seemed that the implications were not lost on the headmaster either, as she turned to face Malfoy with severely pursed lips and a raised eyebrow. 

The blonde Slytherin, who had carefully crafted his previous panicked expression back in the lavatory to one neutral of emotion said calmly, “I swear, this was not my doing. I was simply there as I was looking for my snake, who had darted off.” 

He held up his hand on which a slim, pearly white snake had affectionately wrapped itself around.

McGonagall opened her mouth to respond, but something fierce and impulsive within Harry caused him to quickly say, “I believe him.” 

Both the headmaster and Malfoy blinked at him in surprise, and although Harry was rather used to the former, the latter made him flush as he quickly tried to explain himself. 

“I mean, when I was there, Malfoy looked just about as shocked as I did. Unless he’s a brilliant actor,” _which he very may well be_ , Harry thought grimly for a moment, “there’s no way he was behind this. In fact—” 

Mercifully, McGonagall silenced his awkward tirade by raising a palm up in request for his quiescence. 

“What I was going to say,” McGonagall sent a pointed look at Harry, causing the flush to darken, “is that I would like to believe that Mr. Malfoy here is innocent as well. I cannot stress how _foolish_ such an act would be, especially coming from one in your… position,” the headmaster turned her burning gaze to Malfoy, who nodded sharply without a semblance of a flinch. 

“Therefore, I am choosing to believe in Mr. Malfoy’s guiltlessness as of now. The more pressing matter is, who then is responsible for this?” 

Both Harry and Draco fell silent, although the cogs in Harry’s brain were churning with a loudness that overcame the rush of blood through his ears. 

Harry had an idea. 

McGonagall gave a knowing look at the expression on Harry’s face, before letting out a small sigh. 

“No one is to go near second floor girls’ lavatory for the time being. Until then, if either of you two learn of any more information or encounter any more threats, I expect you to report to me. Are we clear?” 

Harry and Malfoy both nodded before McGonagall dismissed the two from her office. 

The idea burned warm like a budding seed within Harry’s chest, consuming his attention so that for the second time, he did not notice the peculiar look that Malfoy was giving him. 

… 

Harry, of course, had told Ron and Hermione what had been going on. The reactions he got were rather… surprising. 

Hermione hadn’t so much as shown fear or worry as she might have done years ago, but rather, her response was one of pure annoyance. She had ranted on about how she simply wanted one year where goddamn prophecies and bloody murderous villains didn’t feel the need to interfere with her education. And then she promptly sat down and began to formulate theories as to why this was happening, her shift in focus utterly confusing Harry. 

Ron was adequately surprised that yet again they were to face another school year with heinous workings going on in the background, but he didn’t seem too worried. 

“I mean, what’s the worst that can happen? After the war, I feel like we’ve come to a plateau of sorts,” Ron determined pleasantly, chewing on on a chocolate frog. 

“I think that’s called wishful thinking, mate,” Harry mused. 

“Or idiocy, Ronald,” Hermione added unhelpfully. 

“I have an idea, actually,” Harry supplied, “this might have something to do with all the snakes—”

“Oh, not you and your bloody snakes again—” 

“Ronald, it’s better than your _‘what’s the worst that could happen’_ mindset, which is frankly ridiculous!” 

“Alright, let’s go to Madam Pomfrey’s then, yeah? She’s probably expecting a visit from me right about now.” 

… 

As it turns out, Madam Pomfrey was not as enthused to see Harry as he might have thought she’d have been. 

“Mr. Potter, what a refreshing surprise,” she deadpanned, taking note of the trio of Gryffindors that had absolutely plagued her Hospital Ward since the moment the Sorting Hat howled _“Gryffindor!”_. 

“Surprise?” Harry said, confusion clear in his voice. 

“Yes, _surprise_ because you do not seem to be my patient today, which is always a pleasant idea,” Pomfrey quipped. 

Ron snickered, whispering a good-natured, “she’s got you there, mate,” which earned him a glare from both Hermione and Madam Pomfrey. 

“What can I do for you then?” the mediwitch asked. 

“We wanted to visit Stephanie. It was absolutely awful what happened to her, especially with how she’s still on bed rest after all this time,” Hermione communicated more eloquently than any excuse Harry or Ron could have come up with. 

Pomfrey blinked, a touch of sorrow betrayed by the crinkle of her eyes. 

“Very well, although I’m afraid that you all will not be able to do much talking.” 

Ron and Harry shared a look at the ominous words before following Madam Pomfrey to Stephanie’s hospital bed. Pomfrey stopped at a sheet of white privacy curtains that Harry had become acquainted to rather too well over the years, and gave the trio one last look before pulling back the curtains. 

Stephanie Daniels lay on the bed, eyes open with mild surprise as they were only a few weeks ago during that eventful potions class. Her body was frozen to the point that Harry almost mistook her for a corpse, had it not been for the gentle slowed down rise and fall of her chest. A subtle, almost imperceptible glow surrounded her body as well, indicating that Madam Pomfrey had put her under some spell. 

Before Harry could inquire about it, Hermione beat him to the punch. 

“Is this a _stasis_ spell, Madam Pomfrey?” 

“ _Stasis_?” Ron echoed. 

“Yes, dear. Unfortunately, I could not yet figure out what ingredient in the Ambrosia potion would have caused this lasting of a reaction. Of course, the oil of Moonseeds when consumed in excess could possibly lead to a paralytic state such as this, but I am quite aware that Professor Slughorn does not have nearly enough of the Moonseeds in his stock to warrant a student mistakenly overdosing on it,” she said more to herself than to anyone in the room before backtracking, “therefore, I saw it fit to place Miss Daniels under a _stasis_ spell to slow down her metabolism and bodily functions until this mess is resolved.”

Hermione nodded, following along perfectly. 

“Of course, that makes total sense. However, the spell only slows down the human body to a certain extent— meaning, Stephanie is still breathing and whatever allergic reaction is still taking place within her. What happens if,” Hermione hesitated momentarily before steeling herself, “what happens if the root of her ailment is not found soon?” 

Madam Pomfrey’s lips tightened in a grave expression. “Let us pray that it does not come to that, Miss Granger.”

A silence befell the three, the implications of Pomfrey’s words settling heavily in the air. 

_A gaggle of snakes, all gathering in one place, hissing vehemently, almost venomously…_

_“...non-toxic as long as it is made with strict adherence to the instructions…”_

_Non-toxic._

_A basilisk’s venom is strong enough to destroy a horcrux. A snake’s venom is strong enough to kill a man.  
_

“Madam Pomfrey,” Harry said slowly, “have you tried checking her for poison?”

“Yes, Mr. Potter, I am quite proficient at my job, I’ll have you know,” Pomfrey responded with slight impatience. 

“What spell did you use?” 

“ _Venenum quaerere_. May I ask why this is of importance?” 

Hermione frowned, and Harry could practically hear the neurons firing in that brilliant head of hers. 

“ _Venenum quaerere_ searches for poisons from magical creatures and plants, such as acromantulas…” 

Harry saw realization dawn in Hermione’s eyes just as it had hit him as well. 

“ _Magical_ creatures,” Harry breathed. “Madam Pomfrey, can you perform a spell that would check for venom from _non_ -magical creatures, such as snakes?” 

The mediwitch was taken aback by the wide-eyed looks of the students before her. She simply nodded slowly, before turning to the unconscious patient and pulling out her wand. 

“ _Serpens Speculo_ ,” she said in a clear, ringing voice. 

At first, nothing happened. Then, at a snail’s pace, the slight golden glow around her turned into an almost violently bright shade of emerald. 

Pomfrey gasped as Ron let out a whispered “blimey,” before she sprung right back into action. 

“Snake poison! Snake poison, my word, Mr. Potter and Mrs. Granger— I have no idea how you two deduced this but this means— oh my, I must contact Severus immediately to brew an antidote,” Madam Pomfrey near babbled, delighted at the new development. 

“I knew there was something up with all these Slytherins bringing bloody snakes in this year. ‘Just a trend’ my arse,” Ron muttered. Pomfrey was too elated to correct him for language. 

“But all of the pets that come into Hogwarts are _screened_. Venomous snakes are definitely not allowed here,” Hermione reasoned, “and it’s not like the wards on the school make it _easy_ for a student to simply bring in a vat full of snake venom.” 

Frustration welled in Harry; one step forward only to be dragged three steps backwards. However, Madam Pomfrey did not seem to share the same sentiment. 

“Alright students, I’d say visiting hours are over now! I have to discuss this with Professor Snape now,” she said in a tone that allowed for no protest. 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione left the Hospital Ward that day, a bitter taste on Harry’s tongue. 

… 

Harry was, for lack of a better word, _stumped_. 

He had hit a roadblock, not knowing how snake venom could have made it into Stephanie’s body system, especially since the poison seems to have taken effect only _after_ the girl had taken a drink of Ambrosia. Wait, wait, no, Harry had to backtrack— how would a poison this potent even have made its way into Hogwarts? Wards were made stronger after the war, more precautions taken so that parents would feel that their child would be safe enough at the wizarding school. There was no way a student or faculty member could simply waltz in with that amount of poison. 

Usually, Hermione would run to the library in this kind of situation, poring over books till the day turned to dawn. Harry had decided to take a page from her book, and do the same. 

That lead to Harry being in the library, sitting a table with his head in his hands as various books sprawled out over the tabletop. He hadn’t known where to start, so instead he started _everywhere_ — he had popular titles out, from _The Practical Potioneer_ to _Magick Moste Evile_. He had even pulled out “Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, wondering if anything about non-magical creatures would be written in it (Harry was sorely disappointed by the lack of such information, but also thoroughly impressed by the work of one Newton Scamander). 

After an hour of reading about how _variations in potions, if done grievously, can have dastardly effects on the consumer— however, if done with luck, can result in an entirely new potion with fortunate effects…_

Harry groaned, banging his head softly on the book in his hands. This was hopeless.

“Potter, what have you against _The Practical Potioneer_? I quite enjoy that issue, mind you,” a familiar arrogant drawl jolted Harry from his misery. 

He turned around quick as a whip, wincing at the slight _crack_ his hip made from swiveling around so fast. 

“Malfoy? What are you doing here?” Harry squeaked, dumbfounded as the Slytherin sat down next to him and began flipping through some books. 

“I decided to stop by and say hello,” Malfoy said nonchalantly, “what are we researching here?” 

“I— er, that is—”, Malfoy gave him a pointed look at his stuttering, causing Harry to flush even deeper, “What I mean to say is that _I_ am researching into, well, _snakes_.” 

Harry damn near winced again at how lame his own response sounded. He refused to look Malfoy in the eye. 

“ … _Snakes_?” Malfoy said incredulously. He gave Harry another calculated look before continuing, “So, what you mean to say is you’ve been researching more into the _incident_ that occured weeks ago, am I correct?” 

Harry blinked at him, before nodding slowly. 

“Oh goody, I’ve become a master Potter-whisperer. What’s my prize?” Malfoy droned sardonically, before staring at Harry expectantly. 

Harry shrugged, not knowing how to respond. Apparently, that was the wrong response, as Malfoy sighed theatrically. 

_I suppose I’m not a master Malfoy-whisperer_ , Harry thought, sarcasm dripping through his very thoughts. 

“Alright, so snakes— you think a snake poisoned that 7th year student. Did it bite her? Was it something she ate in the morning laced with a slow-acting poison? Was the ambrosia poisoned?” 

Malfoy fired the questions at Harry at such an efficient rapid-pace that Harry had to stop to process the words before answering. 

“No bite marks, so she must have ingested something either prior to or during the class that made her faint,” Harry responded. 

Malfoy nodded. “Someone poisoned her, then. What’s your hang up?” 

Harry hesitated, before finally saying, “I’m not sure how a student could possibly have brought poison into the castle. It’s harder now—” 

“Yes, yes, because of the updated wards, it’s harder to bring in illegal drinks and potions and poisons, I am _aware_ , and surely our perpetrator is too. There are more ways to bring in venom than just in a carefully concealed vial, Potter.” 

“Are you saying they brought in a poisonous snake?” 

“No, no, too risky, too easily identifiable.” 

“Then… how?” Harry frowned, nose scrunching the tiniest bit.

Malfoy stared at him for a moment. “Think. If the person who committed this act can neither bring in a physical container of the venom, nor bring in another creature acting as a vessel for said venom, then where would it be held?” 

Vessels, a vessel for venom, someone or something that had snake venom in their very essence, in their very being… 

“Are you… are you saying that the person responsible for this isn’t a _person_ at all? It’s a _snake_? How can a person be a snake?” Harry was now thoroughly confused, and from the exasperation clear on Malfoy’s face, he had probably missed the mark. 

“I don’t know, Potter, how can _you_ be a— a— a Parseltongue?”

“Well, how can _you_ be such an insufferable prat?” Harry shot back. 

The two wizards glared at each other fiercely. 

Harry couldn’t help it— he cracked a grin. 

Tension seemed to flow from the atmosphere at the flick of a wand, as the corner’s of Malfoy’s lips upturned as well. 

“I suppose it just comes naturally,” Malfoy drawled, leaning back in his chair. 

“Guess I can say the same too,” Harry smiled. 

The silence between the two was a more comfortable one now, one that left Harry wondering how the two had come so far from where they were merely seven years ago, back at that faithful day at Madam Malkin's. Draco hadn’t even known who Harry was, yet he had talked to Harry about all sorts of things like Quidditch and the Hogwarts houses. Granted, he had done so with the utmost arrogance of a complete prat, but it had been the first real interaction Harry had with another wizard his age, and he hadn’t forgotten that in seven years. 

“Why are you helping me?” Harry wondered aloud, openly gazing at Malfoy now. 

“You believed me.” 

Harry thought back to their conversation with Headmaster McGonagall, how Harry had unquestioningly defended Malfoy in that moment. He hadn’t thought much into his actions at the time; all he had known was the sheer gut-wrenching panic Malfoy had experienced back in the lavatory. There was absolutely no way, especially considering how Malfoy surely felt about Voldemort and _his own family_ , that he would have yet again jeopardized the Malfoy name like that. 

(Maybe Harry liked to think that Malfoy was a changed man.) 

Grey eyes bore into his own, and Harry realized that Malfoy was waiting expectantly for an explanation. 

“I, well, you almost lost your entire family to Voldemort,” Harry reasoned, knowing well how that felt, “I doubt you’re willing to follow _him_ once more, not after all you’ve— all we’ve been through.” 

Malfoy seemed taken aback, and for a moment Harry thought he was about to get his _second_ ever thank you from the Slytherin, when said Slytherin’s facial features contorted into a familiar sneer. 

“Don’t tell me you pity me Potter. Don’t you _dare_.”

Malfoy’s voice was full of ice, his eyes cold and devoid of any previous warmth they may have held for Harry. 

Harry should respond civilly, try to explain that those were not his intentions at all, but he was tired. Tired of walking on eggshells around his former rival— or current?— oh hell, he didn’t fucking know, he didn’t bloody well _care_ anymore. He was tired of researching, tired of being pushed back into yet another Dark Lord-related pseudo-crisis, and he didn’t want to be taking shit from Malfoy of all people. 

So he snapped. 

“God, no, I wouldn’t _dream_ of it. Can’t you just accept my actions for what they were, instead of bloody twisting everything around?” 

Malfoy stood up. “Oh, accept your _actions_? Why, Saint Potter, I didn’t ask to be another one of your pity projects, so you can forget about it— forget about helping me, or whatever you think you’re doing.” 

“Helping you? You think I’m figuring out who poisoned these students to help you? Who died and made you king?” 

Of course, Harry knew that it would have been a plus to direct all suspicion away from Malfoy if he did indeed figure out who wrote the threatening message on the wall and who was poisoning all these students with snake venom. Surely, if he proved that the perpetrator behind these actions was anyone other than Malfoy, Malfoy would be thankful to him— 

But that’s _not_ why he was doing this. At this point, solving Hogwarts’ problems just seemed second nature to Harry, just seemed like what he was supposed to do. 

“Bloody Chosen One,” Malfoy muttered under his breath, “So that’s it then? You’re doing this for the greater good? Not to clear my name, not for your own safety— just for the greater good of all of Hogwarts?” 

Harry didn’t know what Malfoy _wanted_ from him, didn’t know what he expected from Harry. All his life, Harry had played his role, had fit into the shoes of the _Chosen One_ , had goddamn sacrificed his own life for the greater good, and now? Was he just doing the same thing now, continuing the only role he had ever known that had brought a semblance of happiness to his life despite the deal of angst and regrets and responsibilities it piled on his shoulders? Or was this him, was this the authentic Harry, the Harry Potter who wanted to figure things out for the sake of figuring them out? 

“What does it fucking _matter_?” Harry cried, although most of the heat in his words were directed at his own internal monologuing. 

Malfoy stiffened, before straightening himself and standing tall. His face was devoid of his trademark sneer, devoid of any snark at all. 

“Alright then. Good luck, Harry.” 

Malfoy left without saying another word, leaving Harry to wonder how things had gone downhill in a matter of seconds. 

To wonder how it felt for Malfoy to say his first name to his face. 

To wonder if this is what heartbreak sounded like. 

… 

After another fruitless hour in the Hogwarts’ library, Harry drags his feet back into the Gryffindor common room reluctantly. A small, heavy pit of anxiety and gloom had been growing in his stomach ever since Malfoy had stormed away from him, and Harry couldn’t quite tell why. 

He didn’t have the luxury of time to wallow in self-pity, however, as a fired-up Hermione stomped up to him, holding a rolled up newspaper in her hand like a bloody battle weapon. 

Harry was just about to hold up his hands in surrender (he swore he saw _steam_ coming out of the young witch’s ears) when Hermione unraveled the paper and shoved the headline article of the _Daily Prophet_ in his face. 

It read: 

_The Chosen One’s Chosen One: Who Could it Be?_

The article went on to make inane speculations as to who Harry’s lover was. Articles like these seemed to pop up more as of recent, ever since Harry had so unceremoniously come out of the closet at the beginning of the academic school year. It seemed that word traveled fast. 

“Oh,” Harry said mildly. 

“ _‘Oh’_? Merlin, what do you mean _‘oh’_?” Hermione was livid, cheeks a rather alarming shade of red, and Harry wasn’t sure who her anger was directed towards at the moment: Harry for his lack of an adequate response, or Rita Skeeter for her ghastly articles. 

“I mean, I haven’t really been paying much attention to what the Prophet writes about me, ‘Mione. In fact, I think this is probably one of their better articles. At least they got the fact that I’m bent correct…” 

Hermione was utterly scandalized. 

“Still! God, I cannot _believe_ the nerve of that woman,” she seethed, crumpling up the newspaper into a ball with a rage that would’ve made a lesser man cower, “you’d think she’d be a little more careful, seeing as how I know she’s an unregistered animagus!” 

“I— wait, what?” 

Hermione looked at Harry, quirking an eyebrow before explaining, “Remember in fourth year, back when she wrote those horrible lies about you?” 

How could Harry forget? On top of dealing with being in the Triwizard Tournament, he had to suffer through the articles posted in the Daily Prophet which described him and Hermione in a romantic relationship, Harry being the “tragic hero” who even supposedly cried himself to sleep over his dead parents. Hermione had suffered a great deal of hate for that, and well, Harry had always been the center of attention whether he had wanted it or not. 

“Well, I found out she was so good on spying on people because she could transform into a beetle. Hah! Now that was an interesting revelation,” Hermione mused, clearly remembering a pleasant time. 

Wait. 

_... Something that had snake venom in their very essence, in their very being…_

“Hermione—” 

“Oh, I still remember the look on her face when I told her just what she’d be facing if her little secret leaked—” 

“Hermione—” 

“Practically destroyed her career with my own two hands, didn’t I—” 

“Hermione!” Harry took his friend by the shoulders in a firm grasp, a note of urgency in his voice. 

“Yes?” 

“If I were an animagus, would I have _all_ the properties of the animal I could transform into?”

Hermione blinked. “I mean, theoretically, yes? It’s more of a combination of both the human and the animal, if I remember correctly. For example, if my animagus were a… a butterfly, I would not adopt its shorter lifespan, even if I remained in that form for an extended amount of time.” 

“But what if you were something venomous? Would you still be able to…” 

Harry trailed off as Hermione gasped in realization. 

“Oh Harry, the poison! I— yes, that is definitely a strong possibility, if a wizard were to transform into a poisonous creature, they could inflict their venom on another living being.”

Exhaustion was swept away by the buzz of excitement, by the prospect of finally having a direction as to who could have been poisoning students at Hogwarts. 

“So, we’re looking for an unregistered animagus.” 

Hermione nodded. “I can’t imagine who it could be though; the process to becoming an animagus is especially difficult and on top of that, the animal you transform into is based on your personality rather than your own wishes.” 

Harry opened his mouth to respond, when Seamus burst into the common room with Dean at his side. Seamus was panting, out of breath, when he caught sight of Harry. 

“Harry! He’s collapsed! Right out in the hall,” Seamus breathed. 

“Who?” Hermione gasped. 

Almost on autopilot, Harry ran out of the common room and into the hall. He had barely caught Seamus’s response as he had stumbled out: 

_Draco Malfoy_. 

There was a small crowd forming around Draco, and Harry had to shove his way past some students to get to the unconscious Slytherin. His breathing was labored, and Harry could make out bleeding coming from the top of his forehead, and flowing down from his ankle as well. 

Blood rushed through Harry’s ears as he knelt down next to Malfoy on the ground. Seamus had caught up to him, trying to say something about how Malfoy suddenly collapsed, how he hit his head, but Harry was only half hearing it. 

What he was focused on was the way Draco’s body was was cold, cold as ice, colder than he had been when they had argued earlier. How he was nearly frozen, save for the gentle rise and fall of his chest, how the crimson blood was a shock against his smooth pale skin, how his hair looked disheveled—

Why was he in the Gryffindor hall? Had he found something out? Had he been trying to tell Harry, trying to rush down to the Gryffindor common room to find Harry and tell him— 

Then Harry’s eyes spotted the wound on Draco’s ankle. 

There were two neat holes side by side, miniscule and threatening. 

Harry saw white. 

… 

Later, Hermione had told him that there had been some sort of a giant bluish glow emanating from Harry that increased in intensity until he burst with a flash of light. 

Hermione and Seamus had been trying to get Harry’s attention, trying to calm him down, and at one point, Pansy Parkinson even attempted to speak to him, but Harry had been so focused on Draco that he hadn’t heard the rest of them. 

When the light was gone, Draco’s wounds were gone as well. 

Harry had been dizzy, but he was still awake. 

Draco had not awoken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there'll be one more part after this! Also comments give me life :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uhhh i was supposed to upload this a long time ago but here it is now   
> surprise? lol love y'all, drop a comment

An odd numb feeling swept through Harry, not unlike the calming feeling that _Veritaserum_ often induced on its recipients. Distantly, Harry experienced the face-paced sequence of events being carried out around him— 

Hermione and Pansy had used a dual levitation spell to carry Malfoy down to the infirmary, while Ron had been trying to talk his best friend down from the heightened emotional state he had fallen into. Harry didn’t recall much of this, as the cooling numb feeling had already started to flow through his limbs at this point. He could feel the red-haired man slowly prop him up, bellowing for the crowd to make way as he lead the Boy Who Lived slowly to the infirmary as well. 

Now, Harry was standing in front of Draco— _Malfoy_ ’s hopsital bed, watching from a place far-off as Madam Pomfrey propped the Slytherin’s head on the pillow. His body was stock-still save for the minute movement of his breaths. Malfoy’s eyes were closed, unlike some of the previous victims of the unknown force sweeping through Hogwarts, and he looked to be the picture of a pristinely preserved corpse. 

Some part of Harry knew rationally that he and Malfoy weren’t friends. They were barely _civil_ with each other, despite their silent mutual truce after the war. It didn’t matter that they had been getting on at the library because as usual, that had ended in a familiar insulting match between the two. 

Therefore, it didn’t make sense, right? It didn’t make a lick of sense, the sinking feeling of putrid guilt that weighed down Harry’s stomach. The way that he wished they had left off on better terms. 

_Stop that,_ his own internal monologuing sneered, _he’s not bloody dead— not yet._

Harry snapped back to the attention as Madam Pomfrey lay a warm hand on his shoulder. The matronly woman did not smile, but there was still a gentleness to her tone as she spoke. 

“Mr. Potter, you’ve been staring into space for quite awhile. I will contact you if Mr. Malfoy shows any signs of waking up, but until then, I think it would be best if you and your friends left.” 

Familiar indignation pierced through the muggy swamp of numbness, and Harry shot to his feet, a protest ripe at the tip of his tongue. However, Hermione beat him to it. 

“Madam Pomfrey, did you determine what kind of poison the students are afflicted with?” 

The mediwitch blinked at the student, before waving her wand over Malfoy. The tip of it glowed a bright orange, before shifting to a darker red, wavering between the the spectrum of the two colors uncertainly. 

“The other students were afflicted with a very rare species of snake’s poison— a Brazilian Diamondback Viper’s, to be precise. However, it seems to be a slightly altered version of the poison.” 

“Altered? How so?” Hermione asked. 

Pomfrey’s brief pause was not reassuring in the least. 

“It seems to be a variation with mild magical properties, the magic interwoven with the venomous qualities in such a minute pattern that the _Venenum quaerere_ spell could not identify it.” 

“So the cure would need to be magical, yeah?” Ron said slowly, realizing the implications of Madam Pomfrey’s words. 

“That is correct, Mr. Weasley. Professor Snape is working on an antidote for the poison. It would, of course, be much easier if we had the snake that was the source of the venom to create a potion with direct counteractive properties.” 

Harry and Hermione shared an uneasy look at this. Traces of the venom were left in the victims of course, but they may not have been pure enough to make a proper antidote. Harry hated to admit it, but he felt an inkling of gratitude that Snape was at Hogwarts, being the reputed Potions Master that he was; he could probably create a viable antidote. However, even Harry, bollocks at potions as he was, knew that it would be a lengthy process. 

Time was the one thing that was not on their side. 

“Thanks Madam Pomfrey. I’ll read up on the subject as much as I can,” Hermione finally said, as the trio nodded their goodbyes to the school mediwitch. Harry did his best to ignore the hollow pang in his stomach as he took one last look at the unconscious Slytherin on the white sheets. 

As they walked out into the general corridor, Ron groans. 

“Do you ever wonder why the nutters always decide to attack Hogwarts? Do we have some kind of homing beacon or something? A flashing sign that screams, _Hey, wankers, come here!_ ” 

Hermione scoffed at Ron’s language, but Harry had to admit that Ron had a point. 

“C’mon ‘Mione, you know it’s true! Hey, now I’ve got an idea— Harry, mate, why don’t you just use your snake army to figure out who’s been attacking these students?” 

Ron laughed at his own joke, but the idea stopped Harry in his tracks. 

Because as ridiculous as it sounded, what better way to find a snake than by _communicating_ with snakes? There’s no guarantee that they would find the unregistered animagus that way, but it was certainly worth a try. 

Clearly, Hermione was of the same mindset, as she turned to Ron with a look of awe in her eyes. 

“Ronald, that’s actually brilliant.” 

Ron blushed a frightening maroon. 

“Wh— seriously?” He regained his composure momentarily, before spluttering out, “I mean, well, yeah, you don’t have to sound so surprised about it!” 

Hermione laughed and kissed Ron on the cheek, deepening the color on his face even more and reducing the Weasley to a pile of indignant stutters. 

Meanwhile, Harry had an idea. 

… 

_“Ssssso I was there, and then he offered her mouse! A mouse to share! Who does he think he is?”_

_“My word! He fancies her, dear.”_

_“Of courssssse he does! How can he not? But everyone knows they’re not going to lasssst.”_

Hermione prodded Harry’s shoulder to get the boy’s attention, as his head was currently facedown in his palms. His idea had been to interview each and every snake he could get the time to talk to (Ron had laughed rather hysterically at the plan, before refusing to join on account of “not wanting to spend another minute with those little buggers”). What Harry hadn’t accounted for was the lack of focus his… _interviewees_ would exhibit. The two snakes before, Mertle and Gretel them paid no mind to his inner turmoil, however, continuing to gossip merrily. 

“Harry, what are they saying?” 

“Nothing relevant, I assure, you,” he waved her off, before seamlessly switching into Parseltongue, _“Have either of you seen a strange snake around? Maybe one that has been appearing and disappearing without notice?”_

The two snakes seem to regard him curiously, before answering in tandem.

_“Delilah is rather odd,”_ one of them hissed almost conspiratorially, and Harry gets the inkling that he’s been let in on their little gossip session, _“Her children hatched not two weeks ago—”_

_“And no one knows the father! Imagine that!”_ The other snake finished, looking quite pleased that she got to reveal the juicy bit of information first. 

_“And Sssssylvester and Rhonda, good heavenssss, don’t even get me ssstarted—”_

“I don’t think I will, but thanks,” Harry interrupted. 

… 

Turns out Sylvester and Rhonda were even more useless than the other two snakes. 

_“My, my! You rassscal,”_ the brightly colored snake hissed in delight as she intertwined with her companion, _“Not in front of the humans!”_

_“Rhonda, my dear, how can I contain my love for you?”_ Sylvester all but crooned (or as close as snakes could croon), and Harry was vaguely reminded of when Lavender Brown would latch onto Ron like a limpet.

“Harry, this is weird,” Hermione whispered, trying to hide a look of mortification as the two snakes eerily entangled. 

Harry cleared his throat before asking them if they knew anything about an odd snake as well. 

_“Odd?”_ Sylvester repeated, distracted as Rhonda’s forked tongue swiped at his nose, _“A presssssence, I sssupose,”_. 

This got Harry’s attention. 

_“Who? Who isssss it?_

Rhonda answered, _“I’ve felt it too. A weird presssence, one that doesn’t belong. Felt it back in that watery place too.”_

Harry’s mind raced to make sense of the cryptic words. A _watery_ place… 

“Harry? What are they saying?” 

“I think they’ve been sensing something wrong, something that made all the snakes gather in the girl’s lavatory.” He turned to the snakes once more. 

_“Can you sssssense where the presssence is now?”_

As how most things go in Harry’s life, his hope was quickly dashed. 

_“Ssssorry, not interessssted,”_ Sylvester said blithely, curling tighter around Rhonda. _“It’s Rhonda’s peak time for matin—”_

_“Nevermind!_ ” Harry quickly blurted out to silence Slyvester, his hiss sounding rather strangled. Hermione noticed it as well, but thankfully opted not to question it. 

After a moment, one of the snakes broke the silence.

_“You know, he proposed to me by bringing me a mouse to eat. How romantic, right?”_ Rhonda hissed dreamily, and Harry tried not to gag. 

… 

_“He’s trying to feed me meat again! Meat! Ssssslop!”_

Harry sighed. 

“Hermione, remind me to tell Maroney that his snake is vegetarian. Again.”

… 

_“You’re acknowledging me lasssst? I dessserve more than thisss,”_ the white snake harrumphed (Harry did know how a snake could possibly harrumph, but of course, this one managed to) before sulking. 

“Merlin have mercy, it’s like talking to a copy of Malfoy” Harry muttered. He half expected the snake to burst out hissing, _“my father will hear about this!”_

“I think it’s rather cute that Malfoy named her… er, Nadeshiko, was it?” Hermione offered. 

_“She has good taste,”_ the albino snake conceded, _“I suppose I could help you ingrates on whatever scheme you are planning. After all, my masssster is taking quite a long nap, thanks to some ruffian out there.”_

_“Ssssso you can lead us to the culprit?”_ The flare of hope was back. 

Nadeshiko stared at Harry with unnerving bright red eyes 

_“I can ssssense their pressence. We all can lead the way.”_

Harry smiled for the first time in a what felt like year. 

… 

It was like a scene from a particularly dark-humored horror film. 

A gaggle of snakes lead Harry and Hermione to their destination, following a sensation that neither of the humans could detect. Mertle and Gretel brought up the end of the line of defense, as the two were gossiping like there was no tomorrow. A rather randy Rhonda and Sylvester was just ahead of the two gossips, bumping flirtatiously into each other and making noises that Harry never hoped to ever hear again, whether from a serpent or a human. 

Nadeshiko marked the lead of the resistance, charging on ahead in glorious smooth slithers, a determination about her that Harry was admittedly in awe of; she was like a roman goddess warrior. It was rather majestic, if one could ignore the stares they were getting from fellow students, ranging from bemused to absolutely terrified. 

All in all, Harry had executed worse plans before. 

“Uh, Harry,” Hermione started, “it seems we’re about to interrupt your _favorite_ professor’s class.” 

Harry stared at the door that the snakes had stopped in front of. It was Class 104 in the North Tower. 

The room that _Defense Against the Dark Arts_ was taught in every year. 

A sudden bout of petulance bubbled up within Harry. 

“ _Do we_ really _have to—_ ” 

“Go!” Hermione said at the same moment that Nadeshiko hissed out a resolute “ _Yes!_ ” For a split second, Harry had to remind himself that _no_ , Parseltongue was _not_ in fact included in the length list of Hermione’s skills. It was rather unnerving. 

Harry opened the door, bracing himself for the backlash sure to come from the new DADA professor. 

Students were standing up in pairs, practicing basic disarming spells. The litany of _Expelliarmuses_ slowly came to a halt as the students noticed the boy-who-lived and the-genius-of-Gryffindor, hair wild and eyes blazing as they followed a small mob of snakes into the room, effectively interrupting their class. 

(Harry thinks that this is one of those moments that would make a good story for later.) 

“Mr. Potter, what is the meaning of this?” A long suffering drawl came from the former Potions professor, one whose greasy hair and bitter gaze Harry had hoped never to be subjected to again. 

(It’ll make a good story for _much_ later.) 

Hermione attempted to splutter out some half-baked excuse on Harry’s behalf, but he elected to instead focus on Nadeshiko, how her hisses were laced with more and more aggression, how the snakes seemed to be gravitating towards one student. 

A mousy haired seventh year Slytherin, one that Harry recognized from Potions. 

_“What happened here, Mr. Burke?”_

_The Slytherin, a nervous slight person, blinked rapidly and stuttered reminiscent of Neville until he finally choked out, “She w-wanted to taste the ambrosia. I-I told her not t-to, but she was really insistent.”_

_The first victim’s potions partner,_ Harry’s mind supplied. 

He didn’t look so nervous now. 

Several things happened at once. Burke shoved the student he was working with out of the way with a hasty elbow to to the gut, and brandished his wand in Harry’s direction. 

“ _Confringo!_ ” 

All the hairs on Harry’s arm stood up in an achingly familiar way, the red hot cauldron of adrenaline once again heating up within his core. A lesser wizard would have burned under the blasting curse, but Harry’s war-sharpened reflexes thrust him out of the way. The blast of neon orange light instead hit a shelf of books behind him, inflaming them in a horrifying ring of fire. 

Harry could hear Snape rush to using a simple _aguamenti_ to control the damage done, but he paid it no mind, thoughts flying wildly within him. 

_Burke used a blasting spell, not a disarming spell or otherwise. He intends to fight to scar, fight to kill,_ Harry came to the grim realization. In fact, as Burke flourished his wand in an almost aggressive jab, releasing another blasting curse, the green-eyed wizard noted that some of his techniques were eerily similar to Death Eater dueling techniques. 

“Why won’t you just,” the student grunted out in a half-strangled screech, his carefully composed mask slipping away as Harry flawlessly managed to dodge each of his attacks, “bloody _die_!” 

“ _Stupefy!_ ” 

Burke countered with an immediate _Expelliarmus_ , the two spells colliding in a bright bout of light. Harry’s spell goes wide, nearly colliding into Hermione, who positively squeaks and defends herself with a _Protego_. Unfortunately, the shield was so hastily created that the onslaught of magic simply rebounded off of it, and instead hits Professor Snape in the head. The professor falls with a thud, causing Hermione and a few other of the seventh year students to shriek in shock. 

_If I wasn’t dead before, I am now,_ Harry thought bitterly, gripping his wand tighter with a new vengeance. 

“Down, they all go down, just like Miss Daniels, just like Malfoy,” Burke hissed, brown eyes glinted with sadistic glee. 

At the mention of Malfoy, Harry’s chest tightens and an icy feeling grips at his heart, before he aims his wand at Burke’s head. The other boy stiffens for a moment, before opening his mouth to retaliate. However, Harry jerks his wand upwards, pointing to the shelf above Burke’s head. 

Confusion turns into grim realization as Harry shouts out a quick, “ _Reducto!_ ”, sending the shelf above him crashing down. Burke dove out of the way just in time, the debris of the blasted wood just missing him barely. From the ground, he immediately shouts out a strangled “ _Sectumsempra!_. 

_Shit._

Harry manages to construct a quick nonverbal Defensive Charm, one that absorbed the spell almost in its entirety. Sparks of the blinding crimson light sliced at his forearms, leaving thin shallow gashes that would forever scar as a reminder of the dark magic. However, he was lucky— not everyone who had the misfortune to encounter this spell would walk away unscathed to the same extent. The dark-haired wizard grimaced as he remembered how he had foolishly cast the curse on Malfoy a mere year and a half ago. 

How the Slytherin had collapsed in a heap, blood spurting from his chest in dramatic cascades of crimson. 

How his own silver eyes clouded over after the disbelief and shock had left them numb. 

_‘Why did you do this to me? Why?’_

Harry could still hear the unspoken words. No matter that Draco had tried to use an unforgivable curse just moments before, no matter that the two had seemingly been born to hate each other— how could he, the _boy-who-lived_ , the Golden Boy, Harry Potter, possibly scar him in this way? 

Burke gets up, growling threats under his breath that Harry does not botter to make out, and staggers towards him with a rather frightening madness. 

_‘Why?’_

“Why are you doing this?” Harry gasped out, deflecting a haphazard _Expelliarmus_. 

Burke is lashing out spell after spell, and Harry thanks Merlin briefly for his fast reflexes and his stint as the head of Dumbledore’s Army. 

“The dark lord,” Burke near shrieks, spittle thrown from his lips, “was a greater leader than you’ll ever be! Through his power, he will administer upon us absolution, through his indomitable grace—” 

“Are you absolutely _mad_? He killed your bloody parents!” A voice that Harry recognizes as Theodore Nott’s shouts from the side. 

Burke flinches, before snarling, “they were not worthy enough! They were not, they were—”

And suddenly, Harry thinks that the madness in the neo-Death Eater’s eyes is laced with the vestiges of a subdued, all-encompassing grief. It’s an expression that would belong to someone of the likes of Bellatrix LeStrange, the type of inexplicable misplaced anger that could not be cured by mere anger. 

Burke was out for blood. Harry would not grant him that. 

The Slytherin raised his wand savagely, about to bark out another spell, this time aimed unsteadily at Harry, wavering between him and the DADA students around them. 

Drawing from the raw determination in his core, Harry tugs at the magic within him, trying to perform what he could do with the mere uttering of words. He feels the buzzing from his stomach spread to the tips of his fingers, and imagines liquid gold flowing through his veins for a moment rather than blood. He’s holding on, concentration thin as a fine silken thread woven fresh. Waits, he waits steeling his mind, waiting until the right moment to— 

_Snap._

The thread breaks. 

Burke falls. 

… 

Later the 7th year students would recall how it was probably the best Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson they’ve ever gotten. 

(Professor Snape deducted multiple house points that day.) 

… 

“He dared me to drink the potion,” Stephanie Daniels said shakily, “since it was supposed to be non-fatal anyways. I rather wanted to try some as well, I’ll admit. It was _Ambrosia_ after all! Besides, he was so convinced we had brewed it correctly. Never once crossed my mind that he slipped something in, that _bastard_. 

“Thank you for your help, Miss Daniels,” Headmaster McGonagall said solemnly. 

The petite Gryffindor just shook her head. 

… 

Multiple students had walked up to Harry to ask a question in the days that passed, emboldened by his heroic actions; clearly, people were reassured that Harry had reaffirmed his role as the Wizarding World’s saviour once again. 

They would ask how he performed nonverbal magic so strong, so fluidly that Burke was knocked unconscious and his dark curses absorbed into nothingness. They would ask how Harry’s own magic seemed to resonate from his body in near-golden waves. 

They would ask him how he did it.

Harry would just shrug. 

…

“Thomas Burke is a right arsehole,” Nott recounted, “his parents were Death Eaters right from the start, even earlier than mine were. Unfortunately, his weren’t as lucky as mine were— when some pure-blood Death Eaters attempted to fall out of the Dark Lord’s circle, well… his family was made an example.” 

… 

After Harry had incapacitated Thomas Burke, the 7th year Slytherin, it took only another day of wait for Snape to be done with the antidote to the Brazilian Diamondback Viper’s poison. Stephanie Daniels’ statement after waking from the _stasis_ spell (fully recovered, thanks to the antidote), in addition to a dose of _Veritaserum_ only confirmed Burke’s unregistered animagus form, and ultimately established his guilt. 

Some part of Harry wondered how far gone one had to be to place their loyalties blindly with the entity that had killed one’s own family. 

Harry then wondered how many people were out there with the same sentiment. 

Surprisingly, Hermione had been the one to tell him to stop thinking so hard. 

He stopped. 

… 

Harry drank in his surroundings, a pristine silence blanketing him like a promise. The vibrant greens of the grass and the utterly crystal clear skies belied the fact that there had been a war not a full year ago near these very grounds. He had seen many injuries and victories on this field, from nearly swallowing the snitch to nearly getting swallowed by the onslaught of despair caused by Dementors. 

Breathing in the morning sky, his eyes flutter closed for a moment, feeling light. He longs for the indescribable feeling of flying through the air without anything holding him back. Hermione had once speculated the reason that he loved Quidditch was for the thrill. Although the adrenaline did give him a rush, Harry rather thrives on the feeling of pure _freedom_ , freedom from dominating the fair blue skies. 

It’s been a while since he’s flown. And so, he breaks the silence. 

“Why are we here?” 

Harry turns to his companion. Draco Malfoy is gazing at the field himself, no doubt having rehashed his stint as the Slytherin Seeker as well. There was no resentment in his eyes, no pain. 

“I wanted some fresh air.” 

The black-haired wizard simply nodded. Draco had awoken not long after Stephanie had. After having confirmed that Burke’s animagus was the snake that had bitten him, they had allowed him to be on his merry way. Of course, Harry hadn’t expected him to look for Harry so soon, especially in lieu of the argument they had been having before Draco had been bitten. 

(Ron would rather wonder why Harry thought that would make a difference, especially since he and Malfoy had argued their entire lives.)

Draco probably didn’t expect Harry to say yes to a stroll on the Quidditch pitch early in the morning. Yet, Harry remains constant in his ability to surprise those around him. And so he found himself soaking in the first light of the day, oddly comfortable with the Slytherin by his side. 

“I heard you went berserk when you saw me.”

Draco didn’t need to elaborate; a blush swam across Harry’s face as he remembered the utter panic that had electrified him when he saw Draco collapsed in the middle of the hall with blood thinly flowing from the bite wound on his ankle and the wound on his abused head. The way that emotion had swelled up so strongly in a tidal wave of pure magic that he himself had blacked out in the blanket of whitish blue magic that had ensued. It had consumed him, his concern for Draco. And so, his magic had healed Draco of his wounds. 

“Who—” 

“Pansy told me. Thanks, I suppose.” 

“I— er, don’t mention it,” Harry said, flushing deeper at Malfoy’s raised eyebrow. “It, um, happens when I’m… experiencing a lot of emotion.” 

He barely concealed a wince at how barmy he must have sounded. Yet, Draco didn’t scowl or even grimace; rather he leaned in, grey eyes blazing with piqued interest. 

“ _Emotion_?” His voice was low, almost a purr, and Harry’s heart rate spiked. 

“Yes.” The response was steadier than he felt. 

“Harry, do you feel a lot of… _emotion_ around me?” 

A twin flare of molten warmth and embarrassment settled in Harry’s stomach. Surely, Draco was making fun of him! Harry turned around to retort sharply, but felt a soft presence take his mouth before he could. 

Lips are warm against his, and Harry gasps. A sly tongue probes its way in, marking, exploring the boy-who-lived as surprisingly calloused hands caress his face. A million thoughts race through his mind— _why, what, how_ — but then he remembers Hermione’s advice: 

_Stop thinking so hard._

And so he stops thinking. Green eyes slowly flutter close, and Harry wonders how it is that he feels like he’s flying when his feet are clearly on the ground. 

After an eternity, they pull apart. 

Harry smiles and leans in again.


End file.
